


Stranger Things Have Happened

by Arbryna



Series: Baby Steps [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Babies, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Fpreg, Magic Cock, Sex Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-12
Updated: 2012-04-12
Packaged: 2017-11-03 13:41:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arbryna/pseuds/Arbryna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isabela returns to Kirkwall to find things...very different than the way she left them. Spoilers through Act 2 of Dragon Age II.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stranger Things Have Happened

_Bloody coward_.

Isabela berated herself as she stared at the ornate carvings on the door to the Hawke Estate. She'd been here hundreds of times before; and, well, all right, she'd rarely even used the front door, let alone knocked on it, but that shouldn't matter now. The fact was, Hawke had asked her to come, and she damn well owed it to the woman—and no one could say that Isabela didn't honor her debts (well, some could, but they were all dead, and that was besides the point).

She'd barely been back in Kirkwall for a full day before Hawke had shown up; not that Isabela had expected anything less, after all the shit she pulled way back when. What she hadn't expected, though, was for Hawke to be so flaming _civil_. She had steeled herself for an angry rant, possibly a fight, even—Maker forbid—a total emotional breakdown, complete with tears and strangled pleas for some sort of explanation. She'd even managed to convince herself to stick around, no matter how ugly and complicated it got—at least for long enough to hear the other woman out. Hawke deserved that much.

But Hawke had done none of those things. She'd simply walked in to the Hanged Man, somehow managing to look humble in that fancy Champion getup, and leaned up against the bar next to Isabela, cracking a bad joke just like old times. 

Well, almost like old times. She'd been more subdued, with something indefinable in those glittering blue eyes: regret, or disappointment, or longing—Isabela hadn't been able to quite put a finger on it, and wasn't entirely sure she wanted to.

It had been entertaining to see Hawke fumble over a simple dinner invitation—especially given the brazen way she used to proposition Isabela for sex. Isabela found herself almost thinking it adorable, in a way—and that led to thoughts she wasn't entirely comfortable with, feelings she'd spent three years trying to bury. So, in classic Isabela fashion, she'd deflected with a joke about how being revered by the masses was turning Hawke soft, demonstrating her point with a poke to the woman's side—which was, in fact, softer than it had been.

Everything about Hawke was changed, Isabela had realized when she'd finally taken the time to consider it. Her face had filled in, her sharp features softened; if Isabela wasn't mistaken, even the woman's breasts were slightly larger than she remembered—and she was never mistaken about breasts.

It was a curious thing; almost as curious as the way Hawke looked nervously away rather than countering Isabela's lighthearted jest. There was something going on here, beyond simply getting lazy and putting on a few pounds. And, well, maybe that was why Isabela ended up accepting the dinner invitation, more than any noble desire to make amends. Oh, she _wanted_ to do the right thing, as bizarre as it felt; Hawke never failed to bring out that maddening sense of morality Isabela never thought she had. If doing the right thing happened to sate her curiosity about just how her former sometime lover had spent the last three years, all the better.

Of course, she wasn't going to get anywhere just standing here staring at the blighted door. Forcing out a frustrated sigh, Isabela raised her hand, curled it into a fist and rapped firmly on the wood. _There, it's done. No turning back now._

Moments later, she heard two sets of muffled footsteps hurrying closer, and Bodahn's voice calling out a harried _"Messere!"_ , followed by the last sound Isabela expected to come from behind Hawke's door—a high-pitched giggle, of the sort that couldn't have belonged to a grown person. When the heavy door finally slid open, Isabela found herself looking down at the grinning face of a toddler barely the height of her boots, dressed in a miniature version of the finery Hawke always wore when she was at home.

Straight, inky black hair fell messily over the girl's face, not quite managing to obscure her pointed features. Her toothy grin melted into an open-mouthed sort of awe when Isabela came into view. There was no doubt about it; this was clearly Hawke's child, despite the rich caramel complexion of her skin and the wide, honey-brown eyes that peered up at her with wild curiosity.

Isabela's heart froze in her chest. Of all the possibilities she'd considered, none had come anywhere close to _this_. Her blood ran cold in her veins as she thought of what she'd gotten herself into. If there was a child, there was also a father. She had no right to begrudge Hawke any happiness, she knew that, but that didn't mean she was ready to spend an evening as a spectator to her domestic bliss. The very thought of it made Isabela feel sick in a way that had little to do with her own opinions on family life.

"Bethany!" An exasperated voice tore Isabela from her thoughts, and her eyes snapped up to see Hawke appear in the doorway to the foyer, blue eyes firmly fixed on the child.

"The young messere was eager to greet your guest," Bodahn explained, a nervous chuckle sounding in his throat as he worried his hands in front of him. Isabela almost smiled; it was nice to know that not everything had changed.

"I can see that," Hawke replied with an authoritative edge to her voice. There was a time that tone would have done deliciously naughty things to Isabela; now, she just watched numbly as Hawke swept forward, scooping the toddler up into her arms. The stern expression on the woman's face wavered as she met the child's gaze, a fond smile tugging at her lips. There was such pure, unsullied love in that look; Isabela felt something clench uncomfortably in her gut at the sight of it. "What have I told you about the door?"

The child was clever enough to at least appear chastened, sticking out her lower lip in a way that could conceivably be contrite. "Bodahn gets it," she said sulkily, fidgeting with the collar of her mother's shirt.

"That's right." Hawke smiled indulgently, tucking a finger under the girl's chin to look her in the eye. "And why do we let Bodahn get the door?"

Isabela wasn't well-versed in children or parenthood by any means, but she got the impression that this exchange had happened before. Bethany inhaled deeply, meeting her mother's gaze with a serious look on her face. "'Acause there's bad people."

"Exactly so. And those bad people would love to steal away a beautiful little girl like you." Her voice cracked a little, a shadow flickering through her eyes, and Isabela knew she was thinking about all of the family she'd lost.

Maker, it was positively _stupid_ how much Hawke still got to her; how just thinking about the woman being in pain was enough to spark a traitorous ache in Isabela's own chest. She didn't _do_ emotional stuff—avoided it like the Blight really—so why did it take nothing more than a sad sigh to make her want to pull Hawke into her arms and hold her until the pain subsided?

She shouldn't have come here tonight. She should never have even returned to Kirkwall—would never have done it if it weren't for that stupid niggling _conscience_ that Hawke had somehow awakened in her. It may have taken her three bloody years, but in the end she knew she owed Hawke some small amount of closure, if nothing else.

Briefly, Isabela considered turning around and leaving. It would seem that Hawke didn't need the closure as much as Isabela had expected (which stung, but she would never admit it). Clearly the right thing, the _good_ thing to do here would be to leave her former lover to her happiness; to get as far away from it as possible, because the farther Isabela was from it, the less chance she had of somehow mucking it up. The moment was short-lived, however: the second Hawke's piercing blue eyes locked onto her own, Isabela had about as much chance of leaving as Anders had of getting that massive mage-shaped stick out of his ass.

"Sorry about that," Hawke said softly, noticeably more awkward now that she was addressing Isabela herself. Her mouth twisted into a sheepish little smirk. "She gets away from me sometimes. Little escape artist." She punctuated her last words with a gentle pinch to the girl's belly, and the somber mood of a few moments before was swept aside by a delighted squeal.

Isabela couldn't remember ever being this lost for words. She floundered for a moment, opening her mouth and closing it again, before finally forcing words to her lips. "I—it's fine." _Maker's hairy balls, Isabela, you can do better than that._

Hawke just smiled, that charming affectionate smile she'd always had for Isabela alone, and gestured with her free hand. "Please, come in. Orana's almost got dinner ready."

Taking a deep breath, Isabela steeled her resolve and stepped inside. Bodahn moved dutifully to close the door behind her, sealing off her most likely escape route, and a flash of panic seized her; she forced it back. She had decided to face her punishment; she couldn't back out now just because it wasn't the fun kind.

The child was staring at Isabela again. She gnawed a little on her lower lip, a sort of wonder shining in her eerily familiar eyes, before she turned back to her mother, tugging at the collar of her shirt. "Mama," she murmured, cupping her hand dramatically over Hawke's ear as she whispered into it.

When the girl finished talking, Hawke laughed, glancing back at Isabela. "Yes, she's a pirate. Bethany, this is Captain Isabela," she said, turning the child to make a proper introduction.

"Not much of a captain anymore," Isabela replied almost bitterly. She hadn't set foot on a ship in almost seven years. Blighted Qunari. Blighted Castillon and his blighted slaves. Void take the lot of them.

Hawke rolled her eyes, and Isabela could practically hear her voice echoing through the years; a memory of a time when things were simpler, before everything predictably went to shit. _"Bela, you'll always be a captain, even if you never sail again. I think I've known you long enough to see that."_

It had been one of those ridiculously romantic things that Hawke said sometimes, that always put Isabela on her guard—not because of what it said about Hawke's feelings, although that was certainly a concern, but more for the terrifying warmth that flared in Isabela's chest at hearing it. Simple comfort, freely given, asking nothing in return; Isabela didn't understand it. And she didn't trust things she couldn't understand—or most of the things she could, for that matter.

For a moment it seemed as though Hawke was hearing it as well; her expression softened, and the air between them seemed to grow heavy with the shared memory. It was unnerving how easily the years apart fell away, leaving Isabela back in that terrifying place that she'd worked so hard to run away from. Panic clutched at her chest; she couldn't feel this way again, especially not now that Hawke had so clearly moved on.

Inhaling roughly, Hawke gave her head a slight shake as though to clear it. "Isabela, this is Bethany," she said, her gaze skittering away, eyes clouding over with that same vague _something_ Isabela had seen back in the Hanged Man. "My daughter."

"Well, a blind nug could see that." She'd meant to crack a joke, ease the tension, but the words came out harsher than she intended. Cursing inwardly, Isabela forced a smile to her lips to soften the blow. "It's...nice to meet you, Bethany," she said, the words stilted and awkward. _Andraste's saggy tits, how does one talk to a child?_

"Nice to meet you, Cappen Bela," Bethany said with a shy smile, after a coaxing nudge from her mother.

She should move, Isabela thought, or say something—anything to break the uneasy silence that fell over them then. She was Isabela, pirate and scoundrel extraordinaire, always ready with a well-timed quip or inappropriate comment. But all of her confidence and wit seemed to slip away from her now. She felt like a sodding fool.

Hawke was the one to put an end to it, clearing her throat nervously as she adjusted the child's weight in her arms. "Come on, then. I'll bet it's been ages since you've had a proper meal," she offered, the forced lightness in her tone impossible to miss. "And no, Corff's mystery stew doesn't count."

Isabela chuckled as she followed Hawke in through the main hall, picking her way through the maze of toys that littered the carpet. "Hey now, there's something to be said for consistency."

"Not when it's consistently inedible," Hawke shot back, grinning at Isabela over her shoulder. Maker, but that grin still _did things_ to her. "Besides, I'd have thought you would find consistency boring."

Oh. Well, there was that. "I like knowing what to expect," Isabela said feebly, crossing her arms over her ribs in defense. Her eyes traitorously darted to the child on Hawke's hip, and she was only grateful that Hawke had turned back around as they neared the dining room.

The meaning of the words wasn't lost on Hawke, though, and she glanced back at Isabela with something sad and vaguely apologetic in her eyes.

 _Shit. That's not what I meant._ Except it was, really, and Isabela found herself once again grasping for words. "So," she finally breathed, attempting to sound as casual as humanly possible. "Will the lucky man be joining us?"

Fine, dark eyebrows furrowed as Hawke stopped in her tracks, confusion muddling her features. "Who?"

Void take the woman, she was going to make Isabela _say_ it. "Your-" she would have said "husband", but something about Hawke's reaction made her reconsider. "The, uh, father."

"Oh." Realization dawned, and Hawke smiled weakly. "No, it's...just me and Beth."

A flash of righteous anger surged in Isabela's chest. She had half a mind to hunt down the blighter who would saddle Hawke with this responsibility and cause him a great deal of pain. True, not everyone was cut out for family life, but this was _Hawke_ , damn it. She deserved more than that.

 _Like you could do so much better?_ Isabela scowled at the insistent voice in the back of her mind. Tamping down the familiar self-doubt that always seemed to surface when it came to Hawke, she shook her head, retreating back to a safer topic. "So, what are we eating?"

***

Dinner was an uncomfortable affair, to say the least. There was plenty for Isabela to catch up on, of course—Varric's latest stories, Aveline's wedding, Hawke's continued concern for Merrill and that blasted mirror—but somehow every topic they discussed found its way back to the circumstances surrounding Isabela's departure. She managed to dodge Hawke's too-casual questions about what she'd been up to during that time, but the years weighed heavy on the conversation.

Isabela found herself grateful for the child; once she got over her initial shyness, Bethany had plenty to say, even if Isabela didn't understand the majority of it. She was a charming girl, bubbly and innocent—although Isabela supposed that could just be her age; she hadn't exactly met very many toddlers—and brought to mind the wide-eyed young mage she'd been named after.

The younger Hawke sister had been a sweet girl, equal parts intrigued and scandalized by the pirate's many exploits—that Isabela, of course, recounted in explicit detail, if only to see that impossibly adorable flush steal over pale cheeks. She'd been tempted, once or twice, to educate Bethany in a more...hands-on sort of way (she had a thing for blushing virgins, what could she say?), but Hawke's fiercely protective glares managed to warn her off of that particular idea.

It was a shame, what had happened to the poor girl in the Deep Roads. A bloody awful way to go, killed by her own sister to save her from dying slowly from the taint. The years had not been kind to Hawke, gradually claiming every last relative the woman had—save for a surly, lecherous uncle, but who counted him anyway? It was comforting, in a way Isabela would never actually acknowledge out loud, to see Hawke smile so effortlessly with her child. At least the Maker (or fate, or the universe, or whatever—Isabela had never been the pious sort) had seen fit to return some semblance of family to her.

When Orana came in to clear the dishes from the table, her eyes widened at the sheer volume of food the child had managed to cover herself in. Isabela had to laugh at it, herself; she'd seen men falling over drunk who were neater about their eating habits.

"Orana," Hawke said with an exasperated sigh, rubbing ineffectively at Bethany's face with a napkin, "can you do me a favor and get her cleaned up?"

"Of course, Mistress." The elf bowed her head, pausing with a stack of dishes in her hands. "Would you like me to take these to the kitchen first?"

Hawke gave Orana a kind smile. "Don't worry about it, I'll take them. Just see if you can find my daughter under all that gravy."

"Rana!" Bethany cried out happily, holding sticky hands out toward the elf.

It seemed that Orana's submissive demeanor was reserved for Hawke alone; she smiled openly at Bethany as she put the dishes back down on the table and scooped the child up into her arms. "Let's go, little one," she said fondly. Turning back to Hawke, she tilted her head respectfully. "I'll have her back down shortly, Mistress."

Shaking her head, Hawke watched elf and child disappear through the doorway. When they had gone, she rolled her eyes and rose to collect the dishes. "I've told her not to call me that."

"Aw, what's the matter, Hawke?" A smirk played at Isabela's lips as she stood, leaning a hip against the table. When in doubt, flirt. "If I recall, you rather liked the title when I used it."

She was rewarded with a furious blush. "Yes, well, there was a leash involved," Hawke shot back, shoving a pile of dishes into Isabela's hands. "And I don't think of my servants in quite the same way."

"Well, you're no fun."

Hawke raised an eyebrow, gathering up the other half of the dishes before meeting Isabela's gaze. There was that damned crooked grin again. "That's not how I remember it."

For a moment, Isabela just watched as Hawke spun around and sauntered out of the room. A pleasurable warmth stirred in her belly at both the sway of the woman's hips and the memories her words had evoked. She smiled hungrily as she pushed off of the table to follow. This night was definitely looking up.

***

"Look at you, all domesticated." Isabela was leaning casually against a cupboard in the kitchen, watching as Hawke scraped leftover food into the refuse bin and stacked the dishes neatly in the washbasin. Things between them may be awkward, painful even, but she couldn't deny how downright _entertaining_ it was to see the mighty Champion of Kirkwall doing something as mundane as housework.

Hawke offered her a strained smile, her face lined with tension. "I didn't have much choice." With a nervous sigh, she swept past Isabela, leading them both toward the study. After a few steps, she spoke again. "Beth...wasn't exactly _planned_."

Isabela got the distinct impression the other woman was trying to avoid eye contact. She picked up her pace a bit, slipping her arm through Hawke's as she fell into step beside her. "So, do I know him?"

The question was posed in such a casual way that even Isabela herself was surprised—and a little impressed with herself. She could hear her pulse roaring in her ears, feel her stomach lurching violently like a ship in a storm.

At first, her only answer was the tensing of Hawke's bicep against her chest, the clench in Hawke's jaw as she searched for words. "You...could say that," she said slowly, pulling away from Isabela to stand before the fire.

Well that settled it—there was definitely something Hawke wasn't keen on sharing. Isabela huffed, leaning against the door frame with her arms crossed over her chest. "Is it some sort of big secret, then? Shall I start guessing?"

Hawke's shoulders rose and fell with a shaky sigh, and then she sank into one of the plush armchairs by the fire, dropping her head into one hand. For a long moment, she was still, and then a dry, mirthless laugh escaped her lips. "Maker...I thought it was obvious."

Isabela was increasingly sure that she didn't like where this was going. Her mind was racing, trying to picture all of the men she and Hawke both knew—even cataloguing every single whore she'd ever known to work at the Blooming Rose, but none of the faces she could summon seemed to fit.

"Come on, Hawke, out with it," she said uneasily, crossing over to sit in the other chair. "Don't keep a girl in suspense."

When Hawke looked up, her eyes shone with a warring combination of hope and fear. She inhaled deeply, clasping her hands together tightly in front of her. "Isabela...she's yours."

Her first reaction was to laugh, quick and sharp. "I think I'd remember that." It wasn't as though she could simply blank out on carrying a child for nearly a year, not to mention the birth itself—and how would that explain the child's resemblance to Hawke?

"No, that's not—" Hawke stopped, fumbled; her voice trembled as she clarified. "You're the _father_."

The idea was so absurd that Isabela half-expected Aveline to jump from the shadows, with a smug smirk and a "Got you, whore". Varric would be right behind her, taking notes for the no doubt hilarious story he'd be telling for the next few months at the Hanged Man, and Merrill would peer out from the very back, wide-eyed and smiling proudly at successfully staying quiet until the joke had played out. Later, Fenris would assure Isabela he'd had no part in it, but a smile would tug at the corners of his mouth, giving away the fact that he hadn't tried to stop it, either. As for Anders, well...Isabela was sure he didn't know what a joke _was_ anymore.

When no one appeared for several moments, Isabela eyed Hawke apprehensively. "Do I need to explain the birds and bees, sweet thing?" She leaned back in the chair, gesturing broadly toward her decisively female form. "I'm sure you've noticed, I'm lacking some rather important equipment for that job."

Hawke's mouth fell open, her eyes widening in mock disbelief. "Don't tell me you've forgotten," she said, her tone somewhere between amusement and accusation. "It was your idea."

Recognition struck Isabela then, pooling cold and thick in the pit of her stomach as memories flashed through her mind.

 

_Merrill smiled brightly as she opened the door, waving a hand to welcome Isabela inside. "It's so nice to see you, Isabela. I'm afraid I don't have much to offer you. Oh, I may still have some of those biscuits in the cupboard—"_

_"Relax, Kitten." Isabela held up a hand to stop her mid-sentence; she was a woman on a mission. She breezed past Merrill to sink down into one of the rickety chairs. "I need your help. With something dirty."_

_The elf clapped her hands together excitedly, rushing over to sit across from her. "Ooh, tell me, tell me!"_

_The enthusiasm came as no surprise to Isabela; anyone who thought Merrill innocent was truly delusional. Still, she had to take a moment to smile at it. A brief moment—then it was down to business. She leaned forward across the table, a conspiratorial gleam in her eyes._

_"You see, in Tevinter, they have this potion..."_

~

_Blue eyes raked over her body, widening almost comically as they settled on the new addition between her legs. Isabela would have laughed, if not for the dark flash of hunger in the gaze. If she hadn't already been hard, that look would have done it._

_"Maker," Hawke murmured, licking her lips unconsciously. "I never saw the appeal in those things before now."_

_Isabela grinned, a predator closing in on her prey. "Don't worry, sweet thing. I'm going to show you just how much fun they can be."_

_~_

_Hawke collapsed back against the pillows, struggling to catch her breath. Isabela looked back at her and chuckled, running her eyes appreciatively over sweat-slick skin._

_"I told you it'd be worth it," Isabela purred, a smirk playing at her lips. She held the gaze for a moment before returning to the task of hunting for her smallclothes, sliding them back into place now that all her parts were back to normal._

_"I'm still not sure I approve of you corrupting Merrill."_

_The admonition was spoiled by the sated exhaustion in Hawke's voice. Isabela rolled her eyes, offering her lover a fond smile as she reached over to tuck a damp strand of hair behind Hawke's ear, ending the motion with a soft pat to a flushed cheek. "Trust me—she didn't mind a bit."_

 

That was back in simpler times; before everything went crazy, and it all became too heavy and too _real_. It had only been a month later when Leandra was killed, and a few weeks after that when things with the Qunari came to a head. Then Isabela had left, and returned, and left again, apparently at the worst possible time—or the best, depending on how one looked at it.

The very idea was insane. Completely, utterly loony. Unfortunately, it also made perfect sense.

"Shit."

Hawke had been watching her carefully, looking more and more nervous the longer the silence stretched. Now, she laughed aloud at the way Isabela managed to boil down a revelation of this magnitude to a single word. "That's pretty much what I said." Her shoulders sagged a little as she relaxed back in her chair, a weight visibly lifted from them. "I can't say it's something I ever thought to worry about, given that I don't usually do men."

Isabela met Hawke's wry smirk with a weak attempt at a smile. "And you're...sure?"

"I haven't been with a man since before Lothering. And after," Hawke paused, unease creeping back into her tone, "after everything calmed down, I spent a lot of time with Merrill researching Tevinter sex magic. Fenris even helped, if you can believe it. It's entirely plausible, and apparently more common than you'd expect."

Well, it wasn't common in the brothels in Antiva, which was where Isabela had first encountered the sodding potion. She felt like an idiot, now; of course the whores would have known it was a possibility, and taken precautions. She'd just assumed that at the heart of it, she was still female, so it hadn't even occurred to her to ask.

Something bothered her more, though, that made her forget her mortification at being caught ignorant about something related to sex. The last time she'd seen Hawke, before she ran off, nearly two months had passed since their little experiment. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously as she leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "When _did_ you find out?"

Guilt flashed through Hawke's eyes, and she pushed out of her chair, turning away from Isabela to pace. She let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through her hair. "I had just been to Anders' clinic when I came home to find you and Aveline sniping at each other in the front hall. After that, everything got so crazy, and—" she stopped, then, and whirled around to pin Isabela with her gaze. Here was that anger that Isabela had expected, accusation in her hardened eyes. "When was I supposed to tell you, Isabela? While we were rushing to collect your damned relic? Or maybe after the fight with the Arishok, when you stayed only long enough to tell me how stupid I was for standing up for you?"

"It _was_ bloody stupid!" Isabela shot to her feet, coming to a stop a couple of steps away from Hawke. The surge of anger pulsing through her veins was almost a relief. Fighting was easy. Fighting, she could do. "Shit, Hawke, I didn't even know _how_ stupid—you knew about this and you still agreed to duel that giant horned bastard! If you weren't so damned quick on your feet he'd have skewered you!"

She couldn't blame Hawke for not wanting to tell her about the baby—there was a part of her that wished she hadn't come tonight, so she'd never have needed to know at all—but shit, she'd been angry enough at Hawke for putting her _own_ life at risk that night. So much more could have been lost, and Isabela would never even have known it.

Well, that probably wasn't true—no doubt Anders would have taken great pleasure in telling her just how much she'd fucked up.

"I couldn't just let them take you," Hawke said, her shoulders slumping in resignation. The anger had drained from her voice, leaving only bare, honest emotion. Her eyes glistened with what Isabela was sickly certain were the beginnings of tears. "Even if we hadn't been..." she trailed off, struggling to find a word and failing. She gave up and reached for Isabela's hand instead, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Whatever else we were, you were still my friend. No matter what you'd done, I could never have let them haul you off to do Maker-knows-what to you."

Isabela's own anger abandoned her almost as swiftly as it had come, replaced by a sharp ache pressing against the inside of her ribs, pricking at her eyes. Damn it all, she knew this feeling, and she hated how weak it made her feel, how vulnerable. It was why she'd left in the first damn place. Pulling her hand away from Hawke's, she pressed it to her chest, curling her other arm over her ribs as though she could somehow contain the storm raging within.

"You blighted noble idiot," she scoffed quietly, turning away to stare into the flickering flames. The words lacked any real recrimination; Isabela admired that nobility, if she was honest with herself, but that didn't mean she approved of Hawke's actions. No one would notice the absence of a lying, thieving snake of a pirate captain; the world bloody well _needed_ someone like Hawke.

"Isabela," Hawke said gently, resting a warm hand on Isabela's shoulder. "It's all right. We made it through. _None_ of us was hurt."

"Not for lack of trying," Isabela shot back, turning back to flash Hawke a feeble grin.

Hawke's lips curled up in response, and the hand on Isabela's shoulder squeezed gently. Suddenly, Isabela could feel every bit of distance between them; her body flushed with heat, and a familiar sensation tugged insistently at her. She was no stranger to desire, but this pull was centered decidedly higher north than she was comfortable with.

Before she could do something foolish like sweep Hawke off of her feet and declare her undying devotion—honestly, who _did_ that?—the sound of a throat clearing shattered the moment.

Orana stood hesitantly in the doorway, holding a freshly scrubbed Bethany now dressed in a white linen sleeping gown. "I'm sorry to interrupt, Mistress, but she was asking for you."

"Thank you, Orana," Hawke said, her hand falling away from Isabela's shoulder so she could take the child. Absurdly, Isabela found she missed the contact. "I'll take it from here. The dishes are all set to be washed. As soon as that's done, you're free to do whatever you like. I don't think we'll need anything else tonight."

"Of course, Mistress. Thank you." Then, with a polite curtsy, the elf was gone, leaving the three of them alone.

Isabela found it hard to take her eyes off of the toddler. This was _her_ child: she could see it more clearly now, from the darker coloring to the wide almond-shaped eyes the exact color of her own. It had been a lifetime since she had fantasized about what her children would look like, back when she was the poor daughter of a seer in Llomerryn. She'd long since given up on such foolish fancies; she was a lot of things, but a mother was decidedly not one of them.

So why did she feel a tug in her chest at the sight of the girl rubbing at her eyes, mouth opening wide in a yawn?

"Looks like someone's ready for bed," Hawke said fondly, tucking a still-damp lock of hair behind Bethany's ear and pressing a soft kiss into her cheek.

Bethany smiled, but her attention wasn't focused on her mother. Isabela's eyes widened in alarm as a tiny hand reached out in her direction. "Bela!"

 _Shit._ Isabela threw her hands up defensively, shaking her head. "Oh, no. I wouldn't know the first thing about holding a child." She glanced at Hawke pleadingly.

"That's all right," Hawke said reassuringly, "we can work up to—"

The sentence was cut short when Bethany launched herself out of her mother's arms, displaying a level of energy that hadn't been there moments before. Thankfully, Isabela's lightning-fast reflexes kept the child from tumbling to the floor; the downside being, of course, that now she had a blighted toddler clinging to her neck.

And Hawke, damn her, was _laughing_ about it. When Isabela shot her a withering glare, she made an effort to sober up, but a smirk still tugged at the corners of her mouth. "She's a bit of a daredevil," she said with an _almost_ apologetic shrug. "No idea where she gets that from."

Oh, sarcasm. That was helpful. Isabela sighed, awkwardly trying to emulate the way Hawke had been holding the child earlier. The tiny body was surprisingly warm and solid in her arms, the girl's hair soft against her cheek. She smelled clean and sweet, like that flowery soap Merrill liked to mix up sometimes. Isabela tried to think back to when her last bath was; she was sure she still reeked of ale and vomit, and although she'd long been immune to the smell, it seemed wrong somehow to taint the child's scent with her own.

Bethany, of course, didn't seem to mind in the least. Her head was tucked neatly under Isabela's jaw, the curve of her nose brushing against Isabela's throat. Her arms were tight around Isabela's neck; clearly she had no intention of letting go anytime soon. "Well, she sees something she wants, and she goes for it," Isabela conceded grudgingly. "I suppose I can admire that."

The mirth in Hawke's expression had slowly faded, leaving an earnest sort of longing shining in her eyes. When Isabela shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny, Hawke shook her head softly, lowering her gaze. "Sorry. It's just not an image I ever thought I'd see."

Of course she didn't. Isabela hadn't left Hawke with any reason to believe they'd ever see each other again. She hadn't actually intended to ever return to Kirkwall; she'd stuck around far too long already, and when you stayed in one place long enough people started to have expectations of you. Isabela prided herself on keeping people's expectations of her as low as possible—that way, it was much harder to disappoint when she didn't live up to them.

Hawke had always seen through her, though; seen something in her that made her believe Isabela could be a better person. More maddening was the way she'd made Isabela want it to be true.

"All right," Isabela said when she couldn't bear the silence any longer. "I think she's well and truly attached. Where am I taking the little demon?"

"Mother's old room," Hawke replied with a smile. "You remember where it is?"

Isabela remembered. It was the one room Hawke had always refused to have sex in. She supposed that wouldn't be changing now. A shame, really; it would have been nice to get a perfect record.

They climbed the stairs in silence, Bethany curled contentedly into Isabela's neck. It wasn't so horrible, once Isabela figured out how best to distribute the child's weight. She was confident that, at the very least, she could manage not to drop her.

Leandra's old room was barely recognizable. A painted forest scene dominated one wall, likely Merrill's work—the woodland creatures poking their noses out between the branches of trees screamed of the elf's influence. The wardrobe was still there, of course, and the bookshelf—although the books were obviously geared toward a younger audience, with large block letters decorating the colorful spines.

Hawke's ever-faithful mabari had followed them up the stairs, and now curled up on a large cushion tucked into one corner of the room. Ever the vigilant guard dog—and now, Isabela supposed, a nursemaid as well. Typical. _You can take the girl out of Ferelden..._

A small four-poster bed stood against another wall, covered in a fluffy red blanket and an assortment of pillows and stuffed dolls. Isabela made her way there now, reaching up to pry Bethany's arms from her neck. The girl whined sleepily in protest and clung tighter, but Isabela was stronger and perhaps a bit more desperate.

Bethany pouted as she was deposited on top of the blankets, wide eyes glistening with the threat of tears as she looked up at Isabela, just _wanting_. Isabela was used to people wanting something from her, of course; it was just usually fairly obvious what that something was. Typically, people only ever wanted one of three things—sex, coin, or revenge—all of which were easy enough to either grant or deny.

Hawke had always been different, had wanted things that Isabela hadn't known how to give; things that she'd left behind years ago, scattered among the heartbroken wreckage of the first and only person she'd ever loved. Still, she had never asked for more than Isabela was willing to give; her yearning had been tangible, but always unspoken.

This little girl would have no such reservations. The expression on her face was pure, guileless want; the look in her eyes said that she didn't, couldn't understand why she couldn't just _have_. A horrifying thought crept into Isabela's mind then: this child would take from her everything she could get those tiny hands on, shaping and molding until Isabela was changed to exactly what she needed—and she would do it without any sort of understanding of what she was doing. Hawke had never asked her to change; this child would demand it.

Stepping away from the bed, Isabela looked over at Hawke, panic making her movements jerky and awkward. Hawke helpfully swooped in, calming Bethany with gentle words and soothing touches as she worked the blankets up and around the child. It was an achingly domestic scene, and Isabela knew that she didn't belong anywhere near it.

"I should leave you to it," she said awkwardly, backing quickly toward the door.

The strained smile on Hawke's face didn't come close to disguising the fear in her eyes as they locked onto Isabela's retreating form. Isabela knew what Hawke was afraid of, and really, she couldn't blame her—a very loud, very insistent voice was screaming in her head to run, to get as far away from here as possible and never look back.

"I'll be down in a bit," Hawke said, a pleading sort of hope in her overly casual tone. "Just have to get through story time."

Balls. It was never any use trying to say no to Hawke, even when she didn't put the question into words. Isabela sighed, her panic subsiding a bit now that she was no longer the sole focus of the child's attention. "I'll just go and see what Bodahn is up to."

 

***

 

Bodahn, naturally, was nowhere to be found. It figured. He had somehow always managed to be inconveniently present whenever she and Hawke were getting naked and sweaty, but the one time she actually _wanted_ his company, he found someplace else to be.

Well, she'd have to make her own entertainment then. She looked around the front hall, considering her options. Little had changed, save for the small couch that sat before the fireplace now and a couple of bookshelves lining the walls. Sandal's enchantment station thankfully lay dormant—Isabela may be the curious sort, but even she wasn't about to go poking around that thing. There wasn't much else out here, except for the little writing desk against the wall, covered as always in letters.

Now that had promise. Isabela sidled over, picking up a handful of papers and skimming over them. There were, of course, the usual plaintive requests for assistance with everything from a lost scarf to a suspected den of escaped blood mages. Boring. Isabela quickly set those aside. The seemingly countless thank-you notes soon followed, though she shook those first to check for coin (she wasn't going to _take_ anything, it was just the principle of the thing). A shady offer from someone claiming to be a Nevarran prince was an interesting read, at least, but clearly a scam.

Which left more than a few messages from fellow Kirkwall nobles, most containing less-than-subtle suggestions that Hawke's child would really do well to have a father, and wouldn't so-and-so's son/nephew/cousin be just perfect for the job? Isabela shuddered; the idea of Hawke being married off to some stuck-up rich boy was unpleasant at best.

With a disappointed sigh, she returned the last of the letters to the desk. It was no fun snooping through Hawke's mail when all it did was remind her of the very thing she was trying to avoid thinking about.

Damn it, Isabela didn't _do_ consequences. It was one of her favorite things about being a woman—she had complete control over what happened to her body. She could have as much sex as she wanted, and any complications were dealt with as easily as a visit to the neighborhood apostate healer—they were far more common than the templars would like to admit—or a simple, albeit foul-tasting, concoction brewed up from common herbs. She'd known a lot of ignorant, self-absorbed sailors over the years, going around leaving bastards in every port; it had been a source of constant relief that she didn't have to worry about such things.

Until now, it seemed. And of course it would happen with someone Isabela actually _cared_ about, loath as she was to admit it. This would be so much easier if Hawke were just some pretty thing she'd picked up in a tavern. She was fairly sure she wouldn't feel this ridiculous need to somehow take care of the child, to be there for her. For her _daughter._

 _Andraste's dimpled ass, what do I know about being a parent?_ It wasn't as though she'd had much of an example growing up. Her father hadn't even stuck around long enough for the sheets to get cold, and her mother had _sold_ her to the first sleazy merchant who'd looked twice.

She hadn't realized she'd been pacing, but the sudden wrench of her ankle certainly brought it to her attention. Cursing softly, she looked down to see a small wooden griffon lying forgotten on the carpet, miraculously undamaged. Which was more than she could say for her ankle; it throbbed painfully as she leaned down to pick up the toy, looking around the room for a clue as to where to put the blasted thing.

Her eyes fell on a large chest pushed into a far corner; she'd somehow missed it in her earlier assessment of the room. _Balls, Isabela, you're slipping,_ she thought as she made her way over to it. When she nearly tripped on no less than three more toys along the way, she decided enough was enough. She had time to kill anyway, and this at least was something that didn't require active thought.

It didn't take very long to collect the majority of the scattered toys and deposit them in the chest. In almost no time at all, she found herself kneeling next to a side table, snatching up what she thought was the last of them, only to spot another figure farther back, just under the edge of the couch. With a frustrated huff, she set aside the wooden ogre she was holding and braced herself on the carpet as she reached for it. Her fingers closed around a tiny head, and she pulled it closer, examining her prize. It looked to be a small wooden replica of the Hero of Ferelden, if the twin griffons carved into the figure's breastplate were any indication.

"You're still here."

Isabela jumped at the softly spoken words, nearly smacking her head on the edge of the side table. She sat back on her heels, looking up to see Hawke leaning against the pillar at the top of the stairs, a fragile smile on her lips. She looked almost surprised; but then, Isabela supposed it _was_ rather surprising for her not to have run off at the first opportunity. Truth be told, she still wasn't sure why she hadn't.

An eyebrow quirked as Hawke's gaze landed on the wooden figure in Isabela's hand. "And you're tidying," she added, her smile growing more solid—and more amused—at the sight.

Suddenly self-conscious—a foreign sensation to say the least—Isabela frowned, glaring down at the toy as though it was to blame for her being so off-balance. "I just didn't want someone to trip over them and bash their heads open," she said defensively, grabbing the discarded ogre before rising to her feet. She could feel Hawke's eyes following her as she turned to put the last of the toys in their chest. "Wouldn't want to get blood all over your lovely carpet."

Hawke chuckled softly, and even without looking Isabela knew that she hadn't bought the feeble excuse. The stairs creaked as Hawke descended, and Isabela tensed as she felt the other woman grow nearer. "Well, I'm sure my carpet appreciates the consideration."

She was only a few paces away now, and Isabela could feel every bit of that distance as she turned back and slowly raised her eyes to Hawke's. Blast it, this was why she avoided emotional stuff; it inevitably involved _talking_ , and Isabela was so much better at simply _doing_. She didn't know how she was supposed to deal with this.

"Hawke, I..." she started, then stopped again, cursing again her lack of proper words. She sighed. "I didn't know."

"I know you didn't," Hawke replied gently.

Whether knowing would have changed anything, made her stay or just made her run sooner, Isabela couldn't say; she could hardly figure out how she felt about it now. _Maker, I need a drink._

As though reading her thoughts, Hawke moved over to one of the bookcases, reaching up to pull a bottle from the top shelf. She held it out to Isabela with a knowing smile.

Isabela took it gratefully, sinking down onto the couch as she worked the cork free and took a healthy swig. The alcohol burned its way down her throat, eating away at the edges of the tense knot in her stomach. She didn't know where to start, what to say; and it didn't look like Hawke was going to take pity on her.

"You kept her," Isabela finally managed, staring at the amber liquid sloshing gently in the bottle. "Even after everything I did. You must have _hated_ me, but you still..." she trailed off, chuckling bitterly. "I'd have gotten rid of it the first chance I got." She'd done it before, countless times, and never given it a second thought. Now, with a face to go along with the idea of a child, the words seemed so callous. Isabela cringed and took another swig.

Hawke sat down on the other side of the small couch, leaning forward on her elbows as she fixed her gaze on the fire. "I thought about it," she said softly, guilt tinging her voice. "There were days I couldn't leave my bed, I was so sick, and all I did was cry. Blighted hormones." She laughed dryly, turning to pluck the bottle from Isabela's grasp. She took a long drink, grimacing at the taste. "Sometimes it seemed like it would be the best option. Then it was too late to stop it from happening. It started to show, and I had nobles from every direction offering to take her, or urging me to give her to the Chantry." She paused, lowering her gaze to the floor. "I came very close to doing it."

Isabela swallowed, looked sideways at Hawke; she was almost afraid to ask. "What changed your mind?"

The sadness fell from Hawke's face for a moment, a warm smile stealing over her lips. "I saw her." Happiness glittered in her eyes as she looked back at Isabela. "Maker, the pain was like nothing I'd ever felt before, but when they put her in my arms it all disappeared. All I could think of was how beautiful she was."

The smile dimmed, turned wistful, and Hawke looked away. "She has your eyes," she continued, her voice shaking. "You were long gone, and it occurred to me that this was the only way I'd ever see those eyes. She was all I had left of you. I couldn't give that up." She lowered her head, shaking it slightly. "It probably wasn't very fair to her, not at first, but I guess even a Champion can be selfish sometimes."

Isabela wanted to laugh at the very thought; Hawke was easily the most selfless person she'd ever known. The raw emotion weighed heavy on her, though, and any possibility of amusement was buried beneath the guilt that threatened to overwhelm her. She reached for the bottle in Hawke's hands, taking a large gulp to try to loosen the tightened muscles of her throat. She shut her eyes, trying to contain the feeling that pressed against her eyelids.

She had done this. Granted, she hadn't been completely aware of it at the time, but that didn't change the fact that she had caused this pain. She'd tried so hard to avoid emotional entanglements, intent on never again letting anyone close enough to her to get their heart broken, and in the end her efforts hadn't mattered. Hawke had been right, all those years ago; love was persistent.

The couch shifted under Isabela, and then a warm hand fell on her forearm. Her eyes slid back open to see Hawke looking at her with far more gentleness and understanding than she deserved.

"And Isabela?" Hawke said with a small smile. "I could never hate you."

 _You should._ "Hawke..."

"I'm not asking you for anything," Hawke assured her. "I know you didn't ask for this. I just," she paused, shrugging slightly. "thought you had a right to know."

At this rate, the bottle would be empty in no time. Sadly, Isabela's tolerance for alcohol was so high that she wasn't anywhere near as drunk as she'd like to be. Still, Hawke was going out of her way to make this easy for her; the least she could do was try to form some sort of coherent response.

"She seems happy," Isabela said, offering Hawke a sideways glance before turning her gaze to the fire. "You've done good by her."

Hawke smiled. "It hasn't been easy," she said wryly. "She's a handful sometimes. And she's so much like you, it's scary."

Isabela scoffed. "She doesn't even know me."

"She could. If...if you wanted to know her."

Hawke's voice was barely audible, but Isabela could feel the pressure of expectation hanging from every word. She took another swig of whiskey to put off having to respond, cursing the way her hand shook as it raised the bottle to her lips.

"I meant what I said," Hawke said before Isabela could reply. "I won't ask you to stay, to suddenly be a parent to a child you didn't know existed. But I won't pretend that I don't want you to. You will always have a place in her life, Isabela. And in mine."

It felt like all the air had been sucked from the room. Isabela drew a shaky breath, willing her pulse to slow down, her heart to stop pounding in her ears. Hawke's hand was still resting on her arm, the heat of it burning into her skin. "Andraste's tits, Hawke, you shouldn't say things like that." Closing her eyes, Isabela drained the last of the alcohol; there wasn't nearly enough to do what she needed it to. When she opened her eyes again, Hawke was just looking at her with that patient look on her face. "How are you so bloody calm about all this anyway? Coming back here, I half expected you to kick my ass, and that was before I knew about...everything."

Hawke smiled. "I've had a lot of time to get used to the idea," she said with a shrug. "Trust me, I did my share of screaming and crying and hitting things after you left. Aveline would have locked me up a time or two, if it hadn't been for the baby."

"That would have been a sight." Isabela chuckled, trying to ignore the guilt that stabbed at her chest. "The mighty Champion of Kirkwall, thrown in the brig like a common criminal. I'll bet there would have been riots in the streets. Not that I think that would have stopped her from doing it."

"No." Hawke grinned. "She'd have done it in a heartbeat. But she couldn't bring herself to put a pregnant woman behind bars. Then there was a baby, and separating us for the sake of teaching me a lesson wasn't something she was willing to do. Which she told me, repeatedly. I got plenty of motherly lectures over the years."

"That's my Big Girl," Isabela said with a fond smile. _Oh, shit._ The smile faded as she realized she hadn't seen Aveline yet; and even if Hawke hadn't held a grudge, Aveline would gladly have held it for her. Forget lectures; Isabela would be lucky if she could stand after the guard captain was done with her.

The hand on Isabela's arm squeezed gently, drawing her attention back to the issue at hand. Hawke had that nervous look on her face again, like she wasn't sure how Isabela would respond to what she was about to say.

"I don't expect you to give me an answer tonight. It's a lot to take in, I know." She drew her hand back, looking down at her lap. "Just...do me one favor? Whatever you decide, tell me. Face to face." She looked up, blue eyes peering through her lashes to lock onto Isabela's. "I need you to give me the chance to say goodbye."

Isabela frowned. "You say that like I've already decided." Granted, the choice should have been clear. Isabela didn't belong anywhere near children. And then there was Hawke, and things with Hawke were guaranteed to be unnecessarily complicated. She'd damn near perfected the art of running away, and if ever there were a time for it, this was it. So why was she even considering anything else?

Balls. Because it was Hawke, that's why.

"I've always known who you are, Bela," Hawke said with a bittersweet smile. The old nickname seemed to fall from her lips; she didn't seem to even realize she'd said it. "I don't fault you for it. Maker, it's you that I fell in love with, not some dashing rogue from one of Varric's tales."

"Are you saying I'm not dashing?" Isabela asked, narrowing her eyes as she tried to ignore the other part of what Hawke had said. She wasn't an idiot; she knew how Hawke felt about her, had known for longer than she cared to admit, but it had always gone unsaid. To hear the words aloud hit her in a way she wasn't prepared for; it made her pulse quicken, and her cheeks flush with heat. Shifting uncomfortably, she donned her best affronted expression. "I think I should be offended."

Hawke smiled, nudging Isabela's knee with her own. "You know what I meant." She released a shaky breath as she looked back down at her hands. "I know this isn't what you planned for your life. If it's too much for you, I understand."

"You do, don't you?" Isabela let out a frustrated sigh, turning her gaze back to the fire. "You're always so bloody understanding. It's infuriating."

The cushions of the couch shifted again, and then a solid warmth was pressing into Isabela's side, a warm hand resting on her thigh, and Hawke's face was scant inches from her own. Now this, this Isabela could handle. It could be just what she needed; some mind-blowing sex—it always was, with Hawke—to clear her mind of all of these blasted _thoughts_.

But when Hawke leaned closer, it was Isabela's cheek that her lips fell on, pressing a lingering—but chaste—kiss there. "Just think it over. Take whatever time you need. We'll be here."

Then Hawke was gone, back on the other end of the couch like she'd never bloody moved. "Wait—that's it?" Isabela protested. "No sex?"

That got a laugh, which would have been fine had it been a joke. Isabela hadn't _counted_ on sex tonight, necessarily; she hadn't known if Hawke would be angry with her, or uninterested, or what. But Hawke wasn't angry, at least not anymore; and if the way those blue eyes darkened at the suggestion was any indication, she was definitely interested.

"I can't," Hawke said, smiling regretfully. "I'm not built for casual anymore. To be honest, I'm not sure I ever was. When— _if_ we do, it'll have to mean something."

Balls. She should have known it would come to that. Well, if she wasn't going to get lucky tonight, she could at least have a bit of fun. Putting on a sultry pout, she shifted over on the couch, leaning over Hawke in a way that she knew would display her cleavage most enticingly.

"You don't play fair," she purred, delighting in the way Hawke's breath caught in her throat, blue eyes flickering down to what Isabela proudly thought of as two of her best assets. _Definitely still interested._

"Well," Hawke said shakily, her trembling hands settling on Isabela's hips, "you cheat." With a grin, Hawke applied firm pressure, forcing Isabela out of teasing range.

Isabela sighed, at least temporarily accepting defeat. "Can't blame a girl for trying," she said, smirking as she rose to her feet. She hadn't really thought it would work, but Maker, was it ever fun. The only problem was that it left Isabela with a throbbing ache between her own legs that was decidedly not going to be relieved here. "Well if we're not going to get naked, I should probably let you get some sleep."

Hawke nodded, pushing herself to her feet. "I'll show you out."

"I do remember where the door is," Isabela said with a roll of her eyes, heading toward the foyer to prove her point.

"Well, you never used it before," Hawke teased, following close behind. "I couldn't be sure."

They stopped in front of said door, silence falling between them. Maker's breath, this was why Isabela preferred to duck out a window; there was never any awkward fumbling over a goodbye. She cleared her throat, closing her hand around the doorknob. "See? Found it."

"So you did."

"I, uh..." Isabela trailed off, wanting to say a thousand different things but lacking the nerve. "I'll see you soon, Hawke."

She slipped out the door before Hawke could reply, not stopping until she reached the stairs that led to Lowtown. She looked back, then; she couldn't actually see the estate anymore, but years of walking the same route meant that she knew exactly where it was. _I'll think about it,_ she promised silently.

 

***

 

For the next week, Isabela could hardly think of anything else. Not for lack of trying, either; she drank herself to oblivion every night, and came very close to distracting herself with a few different promising candidates. When she got them alone, though, all she could see was that tiny face, plump lips curled into a crooked smile she'd know anywhere. Maker, she thought she'd been haunted before, seeing Hawke's face everywhere she went.

When she found herself voluntarily walking out of the Blooming Rose—after she'd already _paid_ , no less—she knew she had a serious problem. After that, it got so that Corff was offering her free drinks if she'd only quit pacing a groove into his bloody floor.

She saw Varric a few times, in passing; he'd hurry off to his suite, making some excuse about Merchant's Guild business or something, but Isabela was no fool. The dwarf was avoiding her; and after yet another night of alternately drinking and pacing, she'd had enough.

Varric glanced up from his papers—no doubt another riveting installment of _Hard in Hightown_ or whatever he had moved on to now—as Isabela casually flung open the door to his suite.

"You know, I'm surprised at you," she began, sauntering over to perch on the edge of the table. Her movements were dulled by the copious amounts of alcohol she'd imbibed, but she was still maddeningly clear-headed. "It used to be impossible to keep you _out_ of everyone else's business."

For a moment, it looked as though he was going to try to dismiss her again, but then he sighed, putting down his pen and rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "Look, Rivaini. This isn't something I can help you with. It's a big decision. And it's one you'll have to make for yourself."

"So, no sage advice from everyone's favorite streetwise dwarf?" Isabela pouted. "Varric, I'm disappointed. I thought we were friends."

Varric met her gaze, his expression hardening. "My advice? Think long and hard about it, and be damn sure of what you want, because this is the last chance you're going to get."

Isabela tilted her head, eyeing him curiously. "Is it now?"

Slipping off of his chair, Varric moved to stand in front of Isabela, somehow managing to look menacing even while eye-level with her breasts. Probably something to do with that dangerous glint in his eyes. Shivery. "Hawke's a big girl. She makes her own decisions." He shrugged, reaching past her to close his hand around the stock of his crossbow. "But the kid's another story. If you break that little girl's heart? Let's just say you'll be getting to know Bianca a lot better than you ever wanted."

Well, that was bracing. Isabela had always admired the fierce protectiveness Varric displayed for his friends, but that was before she'd been on the receiving end of that threatening glare. "Thanks, Varric," she said with an uneasy shudder. "No pressure or anything."

"Oh, there's a lot of pressure," Varric said with a chuckle. Now that his point had been made, his demeanor lightened considerably, and he drew his hand back from Bianca, returning to his seat. "I wouldn't want to be in your shoes, Rivaini. And not just because they're taller than me."

When he picked up his pen again, Isabela gave up on any hope of further discussion. She sighed, hopping off of the table and heading for the door. Varric's friendly chats weren't nearly as helpful as they used to be.

"You really want my opinion?" Varric called after her as she closed her hand around the doorknob. She turned, canting her hip as she waited for him to finish. He offered her a knowing smile. "It's been a week, and you're still here. I'd say you've already made up your mind."

Balls. She hated when he was right.

 

***

 

For the second time in a week, Isabela stood staring at the door to the Hawke Estate, trying to summon the courage to knock. She knew what to expect this time, but somehow that didn't make it any easier; if anything, it only made her question all the more what the bloody flames she thought she was doing. Being responsible and doing the right thing was all well and good in theory, but how could she make any sort of commitment when she never thought further into the future than next week?

This was a mistake. She shouldn't have come; she needed to think more about this, needed more time—

Without warning, the door swung open, and Isabela found herself looking down at a dwarf, but not the one she'd expected.

"Rivaini." Varric didn't even have the decency to look surprised that she showed up. He just stood there with that shit-eating grin on his face, Void take him.

"Varric," Isabela said with a nervous smile. "Were you on your way out?"

He cocked his head, seeming to ponder his answer. "Well, I was going to go check up on Blondie, but I think maybe I'll stick around for a bit."

Damn him. She could practically see him taking notes in his head, deciding how he would tell this story. This was bound to be hard enough without a blighted audience. She couldn't leave now, either; he'd never let her hear the end of it.

"Bela!" Bethany came barreling across the foyer, colliding with one of Isabela's legs.

Isabela reached down to tousle the girl's already-messy hair, unable to help the smile that tugged at her lips. "Hello to you too, sweetness."

Bethany just grinned up at her, with that guileless wonder in her eyes. Isabela felt something tighten in her chest. It would be so easy to screw this up, to hurt this innocent child without even trying. Maybe she should change her mind; just leave, now, before the girl had a chance to get any more attached than she already seemed to be. What could Isabela possibly offer, anyway?

Glancing away, Isabela's gaze fell on Varric; his smile had thinned, taking on a grim edge, and his eyes glinted dangerously. She could see his fingers twitching as though any second he would reach up for Bianca. His earlier warnings echoed in her head. Maker's balls, he wasn't going to make this easy for her.

Isabela swallowed hard, turning her attention back to the child. _My child_ , she corrected mentally. That was going to take some getting used to. "Why don't we get inside, before your mother catches you sneaking out of the house to greet visitors?"

The toddler nodded, still grinning. Her hold on Isabela's leg didn't loosen. Isabela sighed, and somehow found herself half-limping rather awkwardly through the front door, Bethany giggling in delight as she went along for the ride.

"Isabela." The softly-spoken word stopped Isabela in her tracks. There was Hawke, arms crossed over her ribs, leaning against the doorway to the front hall with a look on her face that Isabela could only describe as complicated. How the woman could pack so much feeling into one expression was a bloody mystery: the corners of her lips curled up in the barest hint of a smile; her nostrils flared slightly, giving away the quickness of her breathing; and her eyes held a delicate combination of hope and fear, shadowed by a heartbreaking sadness that told Isabela exactly what Hawke expected her to say.

"Hawke." Isabela's throat tightened around the name, and she was suddenly all too aware of the pounding of her pulse in her ears. She barely noticed Varric closing the door behind her, vaguely felt Bethany's grip on her leg loosen as the dwarf pulled the child into the front hall—far enough to give them the illusion of privacy, but not so far that he wouldn't be able to catch the gist of the conversation.

For that, however, there would have to _be_ a conversation. All of Isabela's carefully practiced words abandoned her as Hawke stepped closer to her, shoulders tensed as if in preparation for a blow. She thought she'd known what to say, but the weight of her decision was almost suffocating now that she was faced with giving voice to it. If she did this now, said the words, there would be no going back. For a woman who always had a convenient escape route or clever backup plan, the prospect was terrifying.

The hope slowly faded from Hawke's eyes as the silence stretched on; she was taking Isabela's hesitance to speak as an answer in itself, and coming to all the wrong conclusions. Finally she nodded, tears glistening in her eyes as she drew a shaky breath and opened her mouth to speak; no doubt ready to make leaving as easy as possible.

Sod it. Isabela was always better with actions than words, anyway. Before Hawke could say a word, Isabela swept forward, her hands sliding up to tangle in messy black hair as she claimed Hawke's lips in a bruising kiss.

It didn't take long for Hawke to overcome her initial surprise, and soon she was returning the kiss with equal fervor. Her hands clutched at Isabela's waist, pulling her impossibly closer; her lips parted, her tongue tangling desperately with Isabela's own. It was everything that had been missing from Isabela's countless casual dalliances over the past few years—the fire, the passion, the dangerous undercurrent of _feeling_ that laced all of their encounters.

Maker, she had missed this. Moaning hungrily into Hawke's mouth, Isabela pushed forward with her body, trapping Hawke against the wall next to the door. Without breaking the kiss, Isabela tugged one hand free, sliding it down Hawke's body to settle on her hip. She lost herself in the feel of Hawke against her, desire infusing her movements with an urgency she hadn't felt for ages.

Then Isabela's hand slid back to grip Hawke's ass, a leather-clad knee slipping between Hawke's legs; Hawke tensed, and the hands on Isabela's hips shot up to push insistently at her shoulders. Isabela reluctantly pulled away, panting.

"Bela," Hawke groaned, arousal darkening her eyes even as regret filled her voice, "I told you, I can't..."

Isabela closed her eyes, resting her forehead against Hawke's. It was too much to hope for that she could get around saying the words. "I know what you said," she breathed, her voice still shaking with want and something else too terrifying to name. "And it does mean something. I don't know what, but it's always bloody meant _something_ with you." Pulling back, Isabela forced her eyes open. Hawke was watching her with a guarded hope blossoming on her features, and Isabela had to remind herself to breathe. "Maker, Hawke, I'm no good at any of this," she admitted with a soft shake of her head. "But I tried to stay away from you, and it didn't work. It never works."

The expression that dawned on Hawke's face was almost blinding in its intensity, a brief moment of pure happiness untainted by the darkness of her past. Isabela felt her chest swell with pride at being the cause of it. Maybe she could do this after all.

After a moment, though, Hawke's eyes clouded again, and she lowered her gaze, watching her fingers toy with the collar of Isabela's shirt. "And Bethany?" she asked in a small voice. She raised her eyes again, her crooked smile failing to hide the tremor in her voice. "We're kind of a set, I'm afraid."

She'd thought of little else over the past week, but Isabela was no closer to even knowing where to start. She wasn't the sort of person anyone sane would want around _their_ children; what could possibly make her think she could raise a child of her own?

"Balls," Isabela cursed. Her eyes shot to the doorway, where she was certain Varric would be watching her with that flinty gaze. He was, of course, but so was Bethany. Isabela groaned. The girl's eyes had lit up with interest when the word left Isabela's lips, and nothing good could come from that look. She turned her eyes back to Hawke, her brow creased in apology. "Sorry. Clearly that's going to take more work."

Hawke smiled again, as though Isabela hadn't just taught her daughter a naughty word. One hand slid up from Isabela's shoulder, thumb stroking gently along the line of her jaw. "If that means you're willing to try, then I think I can be patient with you."

Isabela chuckled, the shaking of her breath betraying how unsteady she still felt. "If you were any more patient, Hawke, the Maker himself would have to give you his bloody throne."

"Right," Hawke laughed softly, rolling her eyes.

Her gaze fell to Isabela's lips, and Isabela was suddenly aware how close they were still standing; how her hands were still resting comfortably against Hawke's neck and the curve of her hip; how their chests pushed against one another with every breath. Isabela swallowed roughly, willing herself to let Hawke make the first move.

Thankfully, Hawke seemed to be just as aware of the situation; her lips curled into a seductive smirk. "Well," she murmured, curling her fingers around the top of Isabela's shirt, "my patience does have its limits."

Warmth pooled in Isabela's stomach, and she hummed her approval as Hawke pulled her closer. "That sounds like a challenge," she purred, tilting her head so that her lips barely grazed Hawke's. The faint catch of Hawke's breath was more satisfying than any casual encounter Isabela had engaged in over the last three years.

A needy groan was quickly swallowed as Hawke dragged her into a feverish embrace. Teeth scraped over Isabela's lips as Hawke arched away from the wall, demanding more—more passion, more contact, just _more_.

Isabela was happy to oblige, any thought of testing the boundaries of Hawke's patience dissipating with the slide of Hawke's tongue against her own. She pressed forward, her hand sliding down over Hawke's ass to grasp the back of a muscled thigh and dragging it up to hook over her hip.

There was nothing but the two of them, and the delectable sounds she was drawing from Hawke's throat, until the sound of a throat clearing shattered the illusion. Tearing her lips away from Hawke's, Isabela shot Varric a dirty look. He just raised an eyebrow, nodding pointedly toward the child at his side who was watching them with wide-eyed curiosity.

Groaning, Isabela turned her gaze back to Hawke. She never thought these words would fall from her lips. "Maybe we should take this somewhere more private?"

Hawke whimpered, rocking against Isabela's thigh. A hint of guilt flashed through her eyes as she glanced sideways at their unwitting audience, but when she looked back at Isabela, there was nothing but burning need in her dark gaze. " _Three years_ , Bela. I don't think I can wait any longer."

Well, honestly, who could expect Isabela to resist _that_? She was only human, after all. And with Hawke looking at her with those kiss-swollen lips, cheeks flushed deep red with arousal, it was all Isabela could do to tear her eyes away long enough to give Varric a very pointed glance.

Varric cleared his throat again, and reached down to grab Bethany's hand. "Come on, Little Hawke. Let's go check out that new book Auntie Aveline gave you."

"What's Mama doing?"

"I'll tell you when you're older."

There was a delighted squeal, and Isabela assumed Varric had swept the child up into his arms; she couldn't say for sure, because her attention was once again firmly focused on those lips that were just begging to be kissed again. Never one to deny such delicious urges, Isabela leaned in to resume their earlier activity.

"Balls!" Bethany's voice was more distant now, but close enough to carry to the two lovers.

Hawke groaned, pulling back far enough to pin Isabela with her best attempt at a stern glare. "You'll pay for that."

Isabela smirked, sliding her hand under the hem of Hawke's skirt. "Looking forward to it."

 

***

 

Much later, Isabela sighed, collapsing back onto Hawke's bed, bare legs tangled in a mess of sheets and blankets. She reached up to curl her arms around the pillow under her head, savoring the fading throb between her legs.

"Was it as good as you remembered?" Hawke teased. She had propped herself up one one elbow, and her free hand moved to trace meandering circles across the sweat-slick skin of Isabela's chest.

The touch of Hawke's fingers and the stupidly tender smile on Hawke's lips had Isabela's skin tingling, her heart racing in a way that had nothing to do with sex. It was the kind of thing that she never would have allowed before; a warning sign that she'd let things go too far, that it was time to pack up and run before things got impossibly complicated. Now that she'd decided to give this thing with Hawke a chance, it was no less terrifying, but she couldn't deny how good it felt.

Isabela's lips spread lazily into a sated grin as she turned to meet her lover's gaze. "Better."

A thorough exploration had confirmed that Hawke's breasts were indeed a bit larger than they had been, and the curves of her body were softer than before. Isabela had catalogued the differences extensively with fingers and tongue, tracing the faded pink lines around her breasts and abdomen, taking note of every new scar (of which there were thankfully few) that testified to the fact that even with a new child, Hawke was still the Champion of Kirkwall, and as the letters downstairs had suggested, she was still very much in demand. It was different from learning a new lover's body, somehow more exciting; rediscovering all of the places that made Hawke gasp and shiver, even finding one or two new ones.

When she caught herself thinking like that, Isabela knew she was a lost cause. If there had been any doubt before, she knew for certain now: she was completely smitten.

Hawke's soft, deliberate intake of breath shattered the stillness of the moment, pulling Isabela from her thoughts. "I know it's not going to be easy for you," she said gently, flattening her palm over the center of Isabela's chest. "Whatever you need from me—"

The faint knock at the bedroom door flooded Isabela with relief. She could feel her heart pounding against Hawke's hand, her own fingers clenched tightly in the pillow behind her head. She wasn't sure she was ready to put words to the doubts that plagued her mind, and knowing Hawke, the other woman would manage to drag every last uneasy thought into light with little to no effort at all. She had agreed to try; that didn't mean she would be any good at it, or that she had any idea at all what she was doing.

"What is it?" Hawke called, frustrated at the interruption.

"I'm so sorry to interrupt, Mistress," Orana's voice was just barely loud enough to hear, muffled by the door that remained firmly shut. "The little one has been fed and bathed, but she's waiting for you to put her to bed."

"I'll be right there," Hawke replied with a sigh, turning back to Isabela. "She'll want a story," she said apologetically.

Suddenly, Isabela felt unbearably awkward. If she was looking for a cue to leave, this would clearly be it, but she wasn't so sure she wanted to. She wasn't certain what Hawke would expect from her, either. Maybe it was too soon for her to even consider staying the night; it wasn't like Isabela had much experience with this sort of thing, and Maker knew there was still a lot for the two of them to work through, hours of incredible sex notwithstanding.

Hawke seemed to notice her uncertainty, and smiled. "You can come along, if you like," she said casually. "I've been taking lessons from Varric. I'm getting pretty good at it."

Isabela quirked an eyebrow at that; Hawke, a storyteller? It was an amusing thought, but not enough to distract her from the thundering of her pulse in her ears. Was she ready for this? "Hawke, I...I don't know," she said, looking nervously away; she was afraid to see the disappointment on Hawke's face.

The hand resting on her chest moved up to cradle her cheek, and Isabela reluctantly slid her gaze back up to see Hawke smiling that gentle, patient smile at her; she really didn't know how the woman did it. She felt like an idiot for being so flaming bad at this, and Hawke just _understood_.

"You don't have to," Hawke said gently. She drew her hand back, sitting up at the edge of the bed with her back to Isabela. An impish smirk adorned her lips as she peered back over her shoulder. "She'll probably want a pirate tale, though; those are her favorite."

Isabela groaned, flinging a hand over her eyes. "Maker knows what ridiculous things that dwarf has been filling both of your heads with." She let out an aggrieved sigh and let her hand drop down to her side. "That settles it then. It's my duty on behalf of pirates everywhere to make sure you're telling it right."

When she dared to look back up, Hawke was beaming down at her. If it meant seeing that look of utter happiness on Hawke's face, Isabela thought, this may not be so hard after all.

 

  


_end._

 


End file.
